“Seriously,” she added from the door. “My son plays NCAA soccer for Fordham. Knees, ankles, elbows, shoulders, they do it all. PTs, orthopaedists, injury specialists. X-rays to MRIs under one roof. For you, too, if you trip in Central Park.”
“Shelia!”
“Sorry; I know you’re busy.”
“No, no, thank you! Ethan… Seriously, thanks a million. I’d love the office address and details. You’re a genius.”
“That’s a first. Make sure to mention it to Marsha.” She returned with names and contact info and left me to my plan. Wahoo. I had a carrot to dangle in front of my mule-stubborn husband, the carrot that might get him to Manhattan. After work I grabbed deli takeout. Ethan’s recent, almost pleasant tone of voice buoyed my spirits. I transferred my Bergdorf—here’s-why-you-stand-to-profit—with—Platinum voice into Ethan—here’s—why—you—stand—to—improve—with—New York Orthopaedics. I filled his voicemail. “…an appointment within twenty-four hours… MRI and physical therapists on site…covered by our insurance…professional level sports medicine. Your rinky-dink trainers will be thrilled; no cash outlay for them. Book a flight to LaGuardia. I’ll meet you or send a car. Pretend you’re Mariano Rivera. You’ve worked so hard. You deserve the best.” I regretted rinky-dink, but the rest went well. “Call me ASAP.”
He did! His trainer agreed as long as consultation and treatment could be arranged immediately and he was back by Saturday. Ethan would make his own orthopaedic appointment so he could explain his injury. I hung up, joyfully teary-eyed and laughing as I wiped DNFUA off my bathroom mirror.
The next day Marsha called me into her office after lunch.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted at her door. “I’m taking care of personal issues. I know you’ve heard I confused the stats for—”
“—Good lord, sit down. First, never burst into apologies when you haven’t been accused of anything. Second, if issues have to do with your move, the sooner resolved, the better.”
“They do.” True enough in the broader sense.
“And yes, I know about your stats screw up. You need an assistant. I hired you for your potential. I want you out front. We’ll bury someone else under paperwork.”
Before you could say, “New York minute,” I had resumes to consider, and back-to-back interviews scheduled for Thursday. Ethan grabbed a seventy-two-hour turnaround from Tampa, arriving the next morning during my appointment with the big guns at Macy’s. I hired a car service and had the driver hold up a contact sign reading: ETHAN PAIGE/MARIANO RIVERA.
My successful store presentations and his orthopaedic workups filled the day. We started the evening chatting as we walked over to Central Park and around Azalea Pond. Ethan’s MRI showed minimal damage and he’d booked a therapeutic massage and physical therapy session for the next morning. I landed a significant Macy’s order. Ethan paused at a rocky outcropping.
“Will you look at that?”
It looked like our Brucknerfield nook. A bunch of rocks in the middle of Manhattan evoked identical responses in us. Couldn’t it be a powerful omen?
We celebrated in bed. whether I pranced around in Victoria’s Secret, or bundled up in flannel, sex remained our universal language, even when we were unable to communicate on any other level. Or maybe because of it. For now it served as a reprieve from our stalemate. Before we grabbed dinner, I convinced him to try the claw foot tub. I slid in with him but let him soak in silence.
“My apartment’s not working out,” he finally said over a beer and lasagna at a corner hot spot. “Brad’s a slob and he snores. It’s worse than living out of motels.”
Progress! “My offer still stands,” I replied over the din.
He looked past me. “You know I can’t do this.”
“I know you’d be away more than here. I’m sorry I made the crack about the living in a family trailer. I love you.”
“Whatever.”
“Not ‘whatever’. Ethan, you know better than I do, you need a home you want to return to.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do.”
He fooled around with his pasta. “I have a teammate from Morristown and our rookie outfielder’s from Mendham. They swear we can find something more like we’re used to than a Manhattan high rise. And close enough so you could commute.”
“You’ve been talking this over?” He shrugged.
“Well, hot damn.”
We called a truce. I agreed to consider a rental in an area similar to what he knew and loved. “Similar, Ethan. That doesn’t mean double-wides. And no Animal Cracker Park.”
Suburban New Jersey wasn’t rural Missouri, but his teammates swore it was possible to find something. At two minutes after nine the next morning I threw myself at the mercy of our Human Resources professionals. They assured me their relocation specialists worked with frantic agendas like ours and New Jersey had its share of rolling countryside and small towns.
I gave them Ethan’s contact number, told them we wanted a rental with a view of the high school football field, and left for Saks Fifth Avenue. Ethan had two days to pull this off.
I got back to our hotel at seven. “We started in Hoboken and worked our way west,” he reported. “The next think I know they’re telling me it’s Jackie Onassis horse country. The day’s one big blur. Brad’s right, though, there’s some nice stuff out there.” His massage and therapy sessions had worked wonders, and he had a full house hunting schedule for the next day.
Thursday as he looked at houses, I looked at potential assistants. My mental light bulb illuminated about 11:30. Fresh out-of-Stanford Dustin Walsh looked like he’d just left a Ralph Lauren photo shoot: prepster with an afro, confidence rather than attitude, top of his class in business and communication. He served a two-year internship at Apple before heading east.
“Apple to the Big Apple,” I quipped. “This is impressive, but why your interest in us and the fragrance industry?”
He opened his arms. “I’m black, gay, and pragmatic. I’m interested in business management. There’s less discrimination in this branch of trade, commerce and merchandising.”
He convinced me but I gave him another ten minutes so we could chat about my responsibilities and how he thought he could enhance productivity. “Before you hear it from someone else,” I told him, “I’m a hell of a saleswoman but you’ll find me rough around the edges. My grammar’s not great and when I’m right, I’m prone to arguing.”
“Thanks for that. I should mention I was captain of the debate team, plus Stanford’s debate champion two years running.”
He grinned. “Fair warning, I win arguments.”
I grinned right back. “You’ve met your match. I’ve talked my way out of more situations than you’ll ever know.” We shook hands and I hired him on the spot. He could start on Monday.
Ethan called in about two pm. He’d found a house. Four square antique colonial in need of repair, but, he swore, it had the country charm we loved. A pantry, a fireplace in the kitchen, two and a half bathrooms. Maintained by the owner.
Great landscaping.
